Mr Scratch Is Coming to Town
by TheInnkeeper
Summary: What if Mr. Scratch was invited to a Christmas party...sort of? With Emma Sloan. All characters are from American Nightmare.
1. Chapter 1 You'd Better Watch Out

Ch. 1 You'd Better Watch Out...

Emma Sloan adjusted her Santa hat and thanked the last of the guests as they filed out of her converted garage and into their respective rooms for the night. She looked up and was shocked to see big white flakes dancing in the air. Already the ground had been covered by a very light coating of the stuff. How very rare, snow in Arizona, but Emma wasn't completely unfamiliar with it. Night Springs just so happened to be elevated high enough that on rare occasions in winter, snowfall was possible.

A year ago she had turned her garage into a sort of meeting place and called it Motor Hall, though it wasn't nearly as formal as a convention hall. After what happened in there, she just couldn't use it as a place to work. Instead, she decided to remodel the old shed where her father's old, beloved Chevy sat, and set up shop there. She wanted Motor Hall to be an open, yet cozy space, where people could go to read or study, or to just have a decent cup of coffee. She decorated it with old advertising signs and car parts, and even added a big, old-fashioned fireplace. When she added some gently used comfy armchairs, a big sofa, and an old Baldwin piano, guests loved it. She even showed old movies there once a week.

Her Ugliest Christmas Sweater party had been a huge success. Everyone who participated was a good contender for a prize, but Barry Wheeler was the ultimate winner, hands down. When he argued that it was his regular holiday sweater and that he'd forgotten all about the contest, everybody just laughed it off…although Emma caught a look from Alan that suggested Barry wasn't joking. Dr. Rachel Meadows was ranked dead last only because she didn't understand the concept of the ugly Christmas sweater. She had shown up in a little red number and was a knock-out. Her consolation prize was Barry's attempts at flirting with her…which proved nearly fatal.

In all, it was a wonderful time. Besides those formally invited, Emma asked any and all of the motel guests to join them, ugly sweaters or not. She made sure there was plenty of food and spirits-the main courses provided by the diner up the hill. Many traditional dishes were served, including honeyed ham and green bean casserole, as well as the required deviled eggs, the cocktail wienies, the three to five kinds of potatoes and of course, the thirteen bazillion desserts. Wine, brandy, eggnog, and Tom and Jerry's followed, along with even more wine and brandy.

She even had help from Serena Valdivia with the decorations. Colored lights blinked from the tree, the windows, and several large strands crisscrossed the courtyard. They were often paired with colored streamers. Silvery tinsel graced every bare edge until everything sparkled. As a final touch, she hired The Old Gods to play carols all night, with their guitars and adding the old piano. Everyone sang, or at least gave their best attempts. (It was difficult to keep Tor and Odin from headbanging and screaming the lyrics to Frosty the Snowman, but they managed somehow.)

Her heart filled with joy as she took a last look at Alan and Alice Wake…so lovey-dovey, those two. How cute they were! She caught them always holding hands, never drifting far from one another, and kissing under the mistletoe more than once. She could have been jealous, but she was just too happy for them. She made sure they had the best room all to themselves.

Emma was pleased to see that everyone she'd sent an invitation to RSVP'ed and arrived…all but one. She didn't hold out much hope for that last one, of course, mostly because he didn't have a real address to send to, nor did he have a cell phone or email. Still, he'd been on her mind a lot. She wasn't sure why, except that Emma had a very strong desire to keep herself aligned and in balance. She held a strong belief both in karma and the golden rule. Ever since the episode in which she first met Alan Wake and assisted him in defeating the Dark Presence, she felt her internal scales irrevocably skewed, and could think of only one way to right herself. She "sent" an invitation, but it was meant to more of a symbolic gesture.

However, all night she was peeking out of the windows whenever she got a funny feeling in her gut. Her intuition was rarely wrong, but she saw no one. She might've dismissed the notion as nothing but pure paranoia, but the last time she did that, it didn't end so well for her...which was another reason for why she wanted to try to set things straight.

'Sending' an invitation was a silly idea at best; stupid even, and at worst, dangerous, but she couldn't help it. She had to make things right, if only for herself. She just hoped the price was worth it. Still, since the party was over and it was past midnight, she began to relax and found herself feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief.

Emma sighed, removing her Second Place ugly sweater and draping it over one of the large armchairs that were pulled up close to the fire. She grabbed two huge garbage bags full of wrapping paper, crumpled paper plates and plastic cups. Barry, Alan and the others offered to help with the clean-up, but she refused. She hoisted one bag over her shoulder and dragged the other. She carried them out into the night.

The snowflakes twinkled in the cheerful colored lights, and she couldn't help spinning in circles, trying to catch the tiny flakes on her tongue, laughing. In doing so she nearly tripped but caught herself just in time. Her hat fell off but her hands were still full. She went to throw the bags into the dumpster at opposite end of the property, near the gas pumps. Still laughing, she began to comb her hair out of her face, now damp with snow.

She glanced down, and saw something right at her feet, half buried by snow. She picked it up, and saw that it was one of the invitation envelopes she'd sent. Upon closer inspection, she saw it was slightly different from the rest...and it had been opened.

That's when her intuition went into overdrive.

Emma stopped. She looked out of the corner of her eye. At first all was as silent as the drifting snow. A gentle breeze began to blow, and then she thought she heard footsteps.

She finished her task, took a deep breath and turned slowly; her weapons tucked safely inside her sleeves. She looked behind her.

At first she wasn't couldn't be certain. She blinked twice, then squinted. Sure enough; she could see it, albeit barely; the blacker on black humanlike shape just beyond the light's edge. The shape seemed to coalesce the closer it came toward her.

Emma's first instinct was to run as fast as she could back to the safety of the brightly lit motel, but she stood her ground. She knew that this might happen, no matter how slim the chance. She had to do this.

She invited him, after all.

The shape got within about a dozen yards before she finally called out.

"I can see you," she said.

The shape paused.

_Surprised?_ she wanted to say. She squared her shoulders, and was silent for a moment before saying, "Yeah, I know it's you. What, were you trying to be fashionably late?"

Emma didn't know why she knew the dark shape was smiling at her. She gulped and hoped her instincts were right. She feigned impatience and motioned to follow.

"Well, all right," she huffed. "Since you're here, you might as well come on in."

The shape began moving again, although at a much quicker pace. Emma slowly retreated a few steps, afraid to turn her back on it. She wanted to walk back to the motel in a way she hoped was nonchalant. The back of her neck prickled, sending shivers down her spine.

Suddenly the light that shone over her head went out with a loud, audible pop. She gasped and looked up behind her. When she felt cool fingers touch her hair and neck, instinct took over and she sprinted toward the garage where the strongest lights were.

She thought she could hear laughter, but realized it was only inher head.

The wind kicked up a notch and snowflakes swirled all around her. Good thing she took one of her supplements earlier, but only a half-dose. She wanted to stay sharp in case things went sour…like right now.

She raced through the courtyard, past the lobby, stopping finally at the entrance of her Motor Hall. Panting hard, she collected herself as best she could. This was her fault. She had to face it. She turned and saw that the shape had paused under the large tree in the middle of the courtyard.

When the shape neither moved nor made a sound, Emma was sure she was right. She rose up one arm and showed a remote in her hand. It had two buttons on it. As she pressed one, she saw the dark shape back up, as though getting ready to bolt.

Yup, just as she'd suspected. The button made a loud CLICK and suddenly all of the colored, twinkling lights that were strung up in the courtyard winked out. The shape hesitated, then moved forward, but didn't come out from under the tree.

"Better?" she asked. "If you are hungry, there's plenty of food left. Or do you just want a drink?"

The shape finally solidified. She watched him tilt his head to the side, deciding.

Again feigning impatience, she asked him, "Well? What do you want?"

He stepped out from under the tree, as though responding to a challenge. Emma repressed a shudder. He was as wickedly handsome as ever, this time adding a charcoal black woolen overcoat to his attire, the collar turned up as though to protect against the cold. To this he'd also added a bright red scarf. Of course, he didn't need it, but Emma couldn't help thinking how striking it made him look. She was sure that was the whole point.

"I think," Mr. Scr*tch said, with an easy, though puzzled grin, "I think I want more than that…_Emma._"


	2. Chapter 2 For Goodness Sake

Ch. 2 For Goodness Sake

"_Emmmmaa…" _He drew out her name as if just saying it was delicious. Oh shamrocks, how had she ever forgotten that voice? It was like a caress of liquid silk. For all of her hatred of him, his voice still had the power to do uncomfortable things to her insides.

"Mr. Scratch," she replied with a small jerk of the head. Acknowledging his name made him smile. He stepped closer. Emma immediately stepped back more securely under the big spotlight at the Motor Hall's entrance.

"No tricks," she said, holding her remote. "These aren't the only lights I have."

He paused, then started laughing and raised his gloved hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Aw, Emma, _Emma..._" he said with a deliberate, childish pout, "…is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"_You_!" she began, biting her tongue at the last second, only making him laugh harder. She sighed and counted to ten. This wasn't how she wanted it to go at all.

For better or, as it was quickly turning out, worse, she had inadvertently invited Mr. Scr*tch to her Christmas party. Emma had her own ideas about how to combat evil with good. For Emma, the right thing to do was to treat him the same. Return good for evil. Love your neighbor as yourself and love your enemies. She knew it was probably a very stupid thing to do, but she also knew that if she didn't at least try, there would be no closure for her. And that's what she wanted, not to entreat him or entertain him, or even downplay what he had done to her. She wanted to see if she could forgive him, face to face, regardless whether or not she would survive the experience.

She reminded herself that he was a guest like any other…well, not _quite_ like any other, but she knew she should treat him as such.

She watched him reach into his coat pocket and she held up a flashlight of her own. Guest or not, she had a right to defend herself, her other guests, and her property. Mr. Scr*tch snickered and slowly pulled out her invitation, the one she'd "sent."

"But _you_ invited _me_, remember?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows. He cocked his head to the side and gave her another puzzled grin. "You made me so curious, I had to come. By the way," he added on a much softer tone, looking up, "you can keep those little lights on. They're very…pretty."

Was that a trace of wistfulness? Emma frowned, but clicked the Christmas lights back on. He sighed dreamily.

The invitation…she knew she was tempting fate, the night she did that, but she didn't realize just how much. Her entire existence was exactly that, or so she felt. She, Emma Sloan, was supposed to be dead. She died twice in one night. She owed her life to Alan Wake, but the way Emma saw it, he wasn't the only one to whom she owed a debt.

One night, overcome by a sort of survivor's guilt, she did the only thing she could think of. She made one more invitation-different from the others. She tied it to a red balloon and released it into the dark night, trusting (dubiously) that karma or whatever would take it to where it needed to go.

It was a strange night. She barely remembered it, mostly due to her being drunk off her ass. There was a storm; she hazily recalled that (along with her enormous hangover in the morning.) She remembered letting go of the balloon, and a doing a lot of screaming, but she couldn't remember what she said exactly. Still, if not for her sore throat in the morning, she would have wondered if she had dreamed the entire thing. Since Mr. Scr*tch was holding the invitation, she had her answer.

Emma knew that what she had accomplished was the equivalent of entertaining the world's deadliest viper and setting it loose in the house. She knew it, yet it was done. Nothing for it now except to move forward and hope she hadn't caused more harm than good. This was her fault, her mess, her responsibility. It was up to her to gain closure and fix it, if she could. That's why she refused to fry him right then and there, and why she refused to run to Alan and the others for help.

She swallowed hard, remembering her goal. She clicked another button and the spotlight over her head went out. Tired and a little sick at heart, she lowered her arms. She backed up until she was inside of the Hall.

"H-how about that drink?" she faltered.

Mr. Scr*tch's eyes widened and his mouth became an O.

"Is this a game?" he asked in a low purr. His grin was equally mad but eager. "A dare? I'll play." He began to walk forward. "It's been so long since I had someone to play with."

Emma didn't dare take her eyes off of him now. The tiny snowflakes that had caught in his darkened hair didn't melt right away, but sparkled. She noticed that she couldn't see his frozen breath in the night air, that is, when he chose to breathe at all. She knew then, that at least part of what Serena told her was true.

She continued to retreat alongside the tables and chairs that were set up for the party. She managed to find an unfinished bottle of wine, and felt, rather than saw herself pour a glass. She raised it to her lips and downed half of it in three swallows.

When Mr. Scr*tch stepped inside of the Hall, Emma couldn't help but freeze. The last time the two of them were together in this place she died. Twice. His movements were easy and unhurried, like a cat. He meandered around the long tables, looking over everything, removing his gloves with his teeth and briefly touching things that caught his attention. Everything seemed to interest him. He picked up a piece of tinsel and looked it over. He ran it through his fingers, chuckling softly before dropping it. He stopped at a plate of deviled eggs. He picked up one and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and made a noise of delight.

"Did you make these?" he asked her, his mouth half-full. When she shook her head, he shrugged and ate another one. "Why do they call these 'deviled' anyway?" he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer.

Next, he picked up a discarded bowl of red gelatin. At first he just stared at it, and then poked it with a finger. Finally he picked up with his hands, discarding the bowl, marveling at the texture, squishing it. As it broke apart, he tasted some of it, staining his face with his fingers. He abruptly turned around and threw the rest at the wall, his movement so fast it startled her. Some of it stuck, some of it didn't. He giggled, licking his fingers.

"Reminds me of something else," he said, grabbing a napkin to clean up. He stopped and frowned. In all seriousness, he asked Emma, "Why do they always talk about nailing this stuff to a tree? Why would anyone do that?"

Emma shocked herself by coughing up a laugh. She was disturbed by her sudden reaction. Why the hell did she laugh?! Mr. Scr*tch was evil incarnate! She tried to move or speak, but realized she couldn't do much other than watch. He studied her a moment with an encouraged smile on his face. Emma was troubled. He _liked_ that she laughed. Why? What did he care?

Something else caught his eye: fudge. To put it mildly, he liked it much better than the deviled eggs. His reaction reminded Emma of a cat rolling around in catnip. He was in complete ecstasy.

"_Now_ I get it," he groaned in pleasure. "Sinfully good. Oh yeah, _mmm..._"

He moved on, inching ever closer to her, finishing with the food by licking a candy cane. When he passed by the piano, his fingers trailed over the keys, the tinkling notes going from low to high. Every note caused Emma to grip her glass tighter and tighter. She forced herself to put it down before it shattered in her hand.

Mr. Scr*tch watched her and chuckled.

"Relax, gingersnap," he purred, pulling the glass out of her hand. Emma cried out and jerked back toward the fireplace, shaking. He shushed her, dipped a finger in the glass first, tasting it, then circled his wet finger around the rim of the glass, causing it to play an eerie, bell-like note.

"Don't worry," he said, finishing the glass and licking his lips. "You invited me, and I have no intention of misbehaving toward my gracious and very pretty host. May I?" He gestured to her left. It was such an abrupt question that human reflex took over. Emma looked down and saw he was pointing at the wine bottle.

"Uh…oh. Sure," she mumbled. When she looked back at him she was startled again. In the time it took for her to look away and back, he had removed his coat and scarf. Underneath he wore not an ugly sweater but a very becoming V-neck the color of deep emerald. Suddenly he was wearing her Santa hat as well.

He grinned at her reaction. "Thank you," he said, pouring himself another glassful. "Would you like another, my dear? You look like you could use one."

Emma tried to think of something, anything to say. She gave him the onceover and edged closer to the fireplace.

"I…"she tried, "I-I thought you only liked black and red."

His grin grew wider. "Oh, I do love them," he said, finding a second glass and pouring for her, "but I love all colors, even white." His tone grew suggestive as he held out her glass. "Do you like it?"

Emma's anger gave her courage. She shook her head in refusal and thought quickly. "Were…you _were _here earlier," she stated rather than asked.

Mr. Scr*tch's face fell a bit and his eyes flattened. Clearly disappointed, he put her glass down and took a sip of his own, eyeing her. After a moment he gave a slow nod.

"Believe me," he said, his voice just hinting at an edge, "I would have just _loved_ to have met everyone, especially Wake and his wifey-poo. But…I mostly wanted to see you, my dear. I'm surprised you could sense me."

He paused, mid-sip. Suddenly he put the glass down and walked up to her in three quick strides. Emma retreated until her back was to the edge of the fireplace. She thought she would be safe there but the fire had died down considerably, though the heat remained.

She flinched, expecting a blow, but it never came. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was leaning over her, one hand on either side of her on the mantle, his eyes nearly black with a very thin outline of blue, staring at her so intently that she wondered if he was counting her freckles.

"But then," he whispered, sliding a cool finger under her chin and lifting it, "you're just full of surprises, aren't you, my dear?"

All Emma could do was gulp and feel her heart attempt to slam its way out of her chest. She wanted to get away from him, but where could she go? She pressed her back into the brick wall of the fireplace so hard she could feel it scrape her skin.

Restless, Mr. Scr*tch's finger wandered in a slow circle under her chin. The ticklish sensation was maddening.

"You invited me," he said again, "after everything. I'd like to know why."

A tiny light turned on in Emma's mind. She remembered her mission.

"I…" she said, still shaking, "I-I have a present for you!"


	3. Chapter 3 You'd Better Not Cry

Ch. 3 You'd Better Not Cry

Mr. Scr*tch's reaction was a slow blink. A myriad of emotions glossed over his face. Incredulity was quickly followed by confusion, then suspicion, and then he frowned so deeply Emma was certain she was about to die right then and there.

His finger that was stroking her chin paused, then resumed and began to wander upwards.

"What…did you say?" he whispered, his finger sliding up and circling her lips. She gritted her teeth to keep him from sticking that rogue finger in her mouth.

"'Said I have a present," she muttered.

Mr. Scr*tch turned his head to the side.

"For me."

She nodded.

"And not…not Wake?"

She shook her head.

His finger came to rest on her lower lip.

"Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "_You_ invited _me._"

_Why does he keep saying that?_ Emma thought.

"Into _you_r home," he continued. "And…you _want_ to give me a gift?"

"Mm-hmm," she said. There was no way she was opening her mouth. He'd have to use a crowbar.

_Wait,_ she thought. _Bad idea! _

Mr. Scr*tch's eyes narrowed to blackened slits. He was silent for a moment, then snickered. He tapped her nose with that finger and withdrew. Emma released a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

Emma was confused. "Huh?"

He grabbed her face and squeezed until she whimpered.

"Pay attention," he snarled. "You want some sort of favor from me, is that it? I see your game now, my dear. You want to make a deal."

His hand slid down to her throat. He looked intently at that throat, considering. His hand convulsed once before letting her go.

"Well," he said, "this ought to be good. Please, tell me what it is. You went to so much trouble to bring me here; I should at least indulge you a little."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Emma said. "And what do you mean, I brought you here? The invitation was just supposed to be symbolic. I didn't think you'd come for real!"

"_Yes,_ you did," Mr. Scr*tch said, "but even if you didn't, you say you have a gift for me." Mr. Scr*tch said the last in a sarcastic tone.

Emma refused to rise to the bait. The last thing she wanted to do was argue with him, especially about that night.

"Yes," she replied. "But I don't want anything from you."

Mr. Scr*tch stared at her in confusion. It made him look almost human.

"You," he said, "want nothing? Nothing at all? You…just want to give something to me …willingly and…want nothing in return?"

Emma suddenly realized why he was struggling with this. The concept of charity was utterly foreign to him. No one had ever just given anything to him before; he had always just...Taken.

"Well," he said, bending over her again, "now I'm even more curious."

His fingers played lightly over her throat. Emma suddenly felt the weight of her flashlight. In her terror she had completely forgotten about it. How did Wake do it?

She slapped his fingers away and flashed the light in his face.

Mr. Scr*tch hissed and flinched back, throwing his hands up to ward off the offending light.

"Bitch!" he shouted. He tried to backhand her. He missed, but caught the flashlight, knocking it out of her hand. Emma tried to go for it but he was much faster, kicking it out of the way.

Emma slid away until she was on the opposite side of one of the long tables. She knew it was no protection as he stood, fuming.

Mr. Scr*tch made sure the flashlight was out of her reach, then looked at her and smiled. It was the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen. He twitched and suddenly one of the folding chairs next to him raised itself up and went flying at her head.

Emma ducked. She peered over the table only to duck again as another chair went sailing past. After a third and fourth did the same, Emma screamed as the table that was protecting her started to lift by itself.

Emma suddenly got angry. She wanted to fight back in some way, but how? She racked her brain.

A game, a dare, Mr. Scr*tch said. Suddenly, she had the craziest idea.

_All right, you want a stupid game? Let's do this._

"Hey!" she yelled, standing up.

"_What?!_" he shouted, juggling about four more chairs above him.

"I thought you said you wouldn't misbehave!" She pointed to the chairs he'd thrown. "What do you call this?"

At her admonishment, he pulled one apart from the others and aimed.

"Um…target practice?" he said, mocking an innocent grin.

"Dude, you throw that chair, and you can forget about your present. You'll never find it, either."

"I thought your little flashlight stunt was it."

"Nope. Do you want it, or not?"

His stance didn't change. "You seem pretty determined," he growled. "Is it a flash grenade or something like that?"

"Nope."

"No?" He thought a moment, then gave a mischievous grin. "Is it something sharp and pointy?"

"Nope."

He folded his hands and beamed at her. "I've got it! It's Wake's head on a stick!"

Emma refused to dignify that with a reply. She crossed her arms and gave him a withering look.

"It was worth a try," Mr. Scr*tch muttered with a sarcastic pout.

"I think you'll like it," Emma said. "Although I'm wondering if I should've gotten you a plate of fudge."

Mr. Scr*tch just stared at her, marveling at her sudden bravery. Where did that come from? He couldn't decide if he was pissed off or amused. The table and all of the chairs he was juggling suddenly dropped in a heap. One nearly fell on his head, but he caught it and tossed it aside in one smooth motion, all while never breaking eye contact with her.

Emma gulped. Mr. Scr*tch decided on amused.

"Impressed?" he asked, moving closer.

"I'd be more impressed if you stacked them neatly," she replied. She moved back to the end of the table closest to the fireplace. She grabbed the glass of wine he'd poured for her and drained it.

Mr. Scr*tch watched her drink and his eyes gleamed. He started laughing and shook his head. He raised his hands and covered his mouth with his fingertips.

"Oh, Emma," he said, breathless with laughter, "you're just too precious. Now I remember why I liked you. You have spunk. I like spunk!"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

His tone remained jovial. "No, I'd rather slit your soft, pink belly and play with your insides."

Emma's face went ashen and Mr. Scr*tch giggled and doubled over. Emma hoped he'd be sick. Fat chance.

"Oops! Sorry, sorry!" he said wiping away tears of mirth, "I couldn't help myself. That was rather mean of me, wasn't it?" He immediately made a few motions with his hands and all of the chairs got up and folded themselves into a neat pile in the corner.

"There, see? All better!" he said. "I'm sorry, but you looked so cute just now, thinking you were about to…. Wait," he said in a softer tone, tilting his head, trying to read her expression. "You're not…gonna cry, are you?" He looked almost contrite. "Oh don't," he said, creeping closer, shushing her. "Don't cry. Not yet. This is the most fun I've had in ages. Don't spoil it by crying. Crying is just so...messy. You know? Please don't...please? I said please."

Emma had bowed her head and was quickly wiping her eyes. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction, not yet. Not until she knew all hope was gone. But his words echoed her greatest fear-that there was no fixing this-she was going to die. Whether or not she felt she owed that to him didn't matter. What did matter was that this was her fault and the _finality,_ the enormity of what she had done finally hit her. Her guests, including Alan, Alice, Barry, and Tor and Odin were in grave danger, but her efforts might not be enough to stop him from attacking them again. And then, of course, was the rest of the world. Shamrocks.

She watched as his perfectly polished shoes walked up and stood before her. He had removed her Santa hat from his head and was using the white tip to blot her cheek. Though it was a gentle gesture, the veil of civility was extremely thin, as was evidenced by his earlier tantrum. She sensed something behind his laughing eyes that was very old, and alien and purely evil. It was something that was very hungry, and hungry for her. But like a cat toying with his prey, he wasn't quite ready for the hunt to end. He still wanted to chase her for a little while longer.

Emma didn't know why she knew all of this, but it bought her time. She hiccupped once and took her hat back, brushing his fingers with hers.

"Thanks," she mumbled, dabbing her eyes. Mr. Scr*tch seemed to brighten. As if she had given permission, he was suddenly touching her arm, her hair, looking her over to make sure she was still intact, so to speak.

Emma took a deep breath and looked up at him.

"How about some music?" she asked.

Mr. Scr*tch was almost overjoyed. He hoped this night would never end...again.


	4. Chapter 4 Naughty or Nice

Ch. 4 Naughty or Nice

When Emma went to turn on the radio, she noticed the room had grown considerably darker. What lights were left on shone weakly, and the tall, tapered candles on the centerpieces still burned, but were so tiny. She figured the lights were left on for her benefit. He sure didn't need them.

She clicked on the radio, just some local station playing the holiday classics. White Christmas started playing. She felt Mr. Scr*tch come up behind her.

"I think," he said, his tone light, "it wouldn't be a party without dancing. Don't you agree?"

It was as though his earlier outburst never happened. If Emma didn't know better, she would have thought Mr. Scr*tch was being romantic. He didn't wait for an answer, pulling her hat out of her hands and tossing it aside, placing his hands on her shoulders. Emma hugged herself. He tugged her gently backwards until she was leaning against him. He expected her to flinch, to fight him off, but she merely complied, relaxing against him. He was cool, not cold. It was almost like leaning against someone who spent five minutes inside of a refrigerator.

Mr. Scr*tch was pleased and wrapped his arms around the lower half of her body, one hand splayed across her belly. He started swaying to the music, his other hand sliding up her body, making sure it ghosted over her chest before cupping her jaw. She froze for a split second and he snickered, his hand on her jaw gently insisting she tilt her head. When she complied, he rumbled in pleasure, mouthing her hair aside and nuzzling her neck. His lips were cooler than his fingers, almost refreshing against her skin. She gave a sharp intake of breath when he bit down on the base of her neck. He quickly lapped the sting away.

"You're so soft, so warm," he mused. "I think the wine made you even warmer. Why is that?"

He grasped her shoulders and turned her around. When he began to bend his head toward hers, Emma panicked. Remembering Serena's confession, she thought quickly and tucked herself into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, swaying with him. She surprised him, but he chuckled and embraced her. He danced with her like a lover.

Emma dimly noted he smelled like pine trees. Not the fake, chemical pine smell, nor was it some cheap cologne. The closest thing she could think of to describe it was winter. He smelled like real trees, like melted snow, ice and rocks, like earth untouched by man; an ancient pine forest.

Mr. Scr*tch continued to sway with her, his hold possessive and inescapable, slowly maneuvering her across the floor. He rubbed his scruffy cheek against hers, as though marking her with his scent. Emma was numb. It was almost as though she stood outside of her body, watching him use her. If not for the wine that dulled her senses, she probably would have fallen to the ground in a dead faint or become a sobbing, hysterical mess. Instead she rested her head against his chest, rubbing her cheek against his soft, green sweater.

"That's it," he whispered, smelling her hair. His hands clutched and unclutched the fabric of her shirt before pressing her body even tighter against his. The hand that was guiding her waist slid down, cupped her ass and squeezed hard, making her gasp and jerk forward. His laughter was cruel as he ground his hips against hers.

"Don't," she heard herself whisper. "Please."

"Please?" he echoed softly, nipping her ear. "Please what?"

"Not…_that,_" she whimpered. "Don't do that."

He sighed with satisfaction. "My sweet, little Emma," he whispered. "Trust me; before I'm done with you, _that_ will be the _nicest_ thing I do."

Emma gulped and tried not to despair but it was nearly impossible.

"So you _do_ plan on killing me," she mumbled. He responded by giving her a tiny kiss on her temple.

"_Yes,_" he said, sounding as if it was something he deeply cherished. "And you've almost accepted your fate, haven't you?" Emma found herself nodding. "But," he continued, "it's been so long since someone sacrificed herself willingly," he coughed a laugh himself, "and you've been so much fun, that for the first time in I can't remember when, I almost don't want to."

"Then don't. Please."

He laughed for real this time. "Oh, no no, sweetheart. All this is just _foreplay_ for me. That's like you…stealing my dessert. And I _insist_ on having dessert. I won't stop now."

"Why not?"

His body shook with silent laughter. He squeezed her. "Why must you be so cute?" he said. "Can a mouse understand a lion who wants to eat her?"

Emma gulped and thought for a moment. Recalling her childhood stories, she muttered, "Probably not, but even a mouse helped a lion once. Isn't that what I did?"

Mr. Scr*tch paused, considering. "I suppose so. I can't tell you how _happy_ you made me that night, almost as happy as I am now. Are you sure you weren't trying to garner a favor from me?"

Emma's memories were still hazy. "How?" she asked, unable to finish the question.

This time his laughter was a deep growl in his chest. He rested his head on top of hers and ran his hands over her body.

"You really have no idea what you did that night, do you?" he whispered. He began dancing with her again. "Well, you _were_ pretty drunk. You, my honey, are full of an exquisite kind of guilt. You _reek_ of guilt! Not that I mind, really," he added, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply. He sighed dreamily. "It makes you smell pretty tasty."

Emma froze in alarm, but he laughed.

"You remember the storm, don't you?" he asked. "It was one of those electrical storms, but it was pretty intense. You were feeling like shit, and so after you made that lovely invitation, you screamed into the night. Do you remember what you said?"

Emma shook her head. Mr. Scr*tch stopped and just held her, almost affectionate.

"You screamed my name," he whispered, his tone lascivious and yet somehow gentle. "You screamed it over and over and over again, with all of your might, every ounce of energy in your little body. You invited me. _Me._ Mr. Scratch. You cursed me, daring me to come and take you."

"T-Take me?" Emma squeaked.

"Mm-hmm," Mr. Scr*tch replied, "to take you away with me. After a while you _begged_ me to. You wanted to die. Your despair was so strong and your desire so great, I heard you."

"But…how?" Emma asked, her face buried in his sweater. "The rift was closed by the fire, wasn't it?"

"It was, and it wasn't."

"What?"

"This place is special," he explained. "The veil between worlds will always be thin here."

His fingers brushed her cheek. "Ever heard the phrase, 'speak of the devil'?" Emma nodded. "Well, there's a reason they used to say that and mean it. Your thoughts and desires were so intense I couldn't help feeling you. And so here I am, to do exactly what you asked."

Emma began to cry then. She couldn't help it.

"I was _drunk!_" she insisted in a whisper. "I didn't know what I was doing! I-I didn't mean it!"

Mr. Scr*tch cradled her head in his hands and kissed her forehead.

"_Yes,_ you _did,_" he repeated. "You meant every word that night. You wanted to die so badly, but you couldn't do it yourself. So you called me, invited me…and I'm here…for you."

Emma buried her face into his chest and choked back a sob. He shushed her.

"Aw, Emma, don't lose heart," he whispered petting the top of her head as though she was a frightened kitten, "I'm not done playing with you yet. You'll spoil my fun."

She pulled back to look at him. Desperate, she wanted to know if there was any sign of softness, of mercy, anything to save herself. As her eyes flashed upwards, she saw he had deliberately stopped under the mistletoe.

She looked into his eyes.

It was like looking into the abyss.

Though framed by thick, long lashes, his eyes were black and dead like a shark's. She saw nothing in his eyes except stark lust, and a deep, malevolent hunger that was barely contained within a humanlike shell. This hunger was impossible to fill because he was always hungry for what he couldn't have, and the shell was thinning by the second.

Mr. Scr*tch smiled down at her- a murderer, a monster, and utter, utter madness.

Emma stopped swaying and began trembling in terror. Mr. Scr*tch chuckled and pulled her closer, tucking her head into his chest, shushing her.

"Not yet, my sweetheart," he whispered. "It's not time. You'll know when."

She felt his lips brush her temple in a small kiss and whimpered again. She shut her eyes tightly as she felt his cool, alien fingers slide under her chin and lifted it. She didn't want to look into his eyes ever again. His breath was quickly growing ragged as his mouth graced her forehead.

"No," she protested, but his mouth brushed against her eyelids, tasting her tears. It traveled to her jaw and he kissed her again. He gripped her hair and pulled her head back. A tongue flicked out, tasting her skin. It proceeded down her neck in a thick, wet line. When he got to the base of her neck, he slid her shirt to one side and bit down on the same spot as before, this time just soft enough not to draw blood. Emma cried out in pain and tried to push him away but he was far too strong. The fact she was still struggling only excited him further.

"_Mine_," he growled. "You gave yourself to me. I'll do what I like."

Emma finally understood. She had thrown the dice, danced with a harbinger of Death and lost. She didn't know what else to do other than to stall him. She knew if he got away tonight, it would all be over. Yet a tiny part of her refused to give up. He was there earlier, so why hadn't he just burst in and ruined everything? Why hadn't he attacked earlier? She was certain he wanted to, so…maybe he couldn't? Something stopped him, but what?

The light from the fireplace was all but gone. She remembered it had been roaring all during the party. Of course, she had all of the lights on, but those shouldn't have been enough to deter him, so…

She glanced at the table closest to the fireplace. With a start, she saw her remote. When had she put it down? Was it when she drank the wine? She couldn't remember, but as she looked at it, she realized it was…different. It was still her remote, yet it wasn't. It had _three_ buttons on it, but she distinctly remembered it having only two before.

_What the_-she thought, then realized she'd seen a change like that before. Only one person could have caused such a subtle change. At first she was afraid.

_No, Alan!_ She wanted to scream, but couldn't. _Stay away, you idiot, or else you'll get sucked back into this mess!_

Determination flooded back into her, reminding her of her mission. Now all she had to do was get to it.


	5. Chapter 5 You'd Better Not Pout

Ch. 5 You'd Better Not Pout

Alan Wake was there. Somehow he'd found out and was trying to help her. Maybe that's why her intuition and insights were suddenly so clear. Emma wondered when exactly the famous author had noticed something was wrong. She also wondered why he didn't rush in and save the day as before. Emma thought for a moment. Perhaps since summoning Mr. Scr*tch was entirely her fault, maybe Alan realized that this was her battle to fight. She just needed a little extra incentive.

Mr. Scr*tch, on the other hand, needed no incentive whatsoever. He had bent her over backwards, continuing to work over her throat with lips, tongue and teeth.

_Kiss me. _

She suddenly heard the command in her head. He'd gotten past speaking. _Kiss me, Emma._

_Jerk, _she thought. Aloud she said, "No."

He still had the back of her head in a tight grip. He pulled hard, making her hiss in pain.

He growled. _No? You still want to play, my little mouse? Hmm?_

"Is this how you seduce all of your girlfriends, jackass?"

Mr. Scr*tch stopped. He looked at her. Emma's scent had changed. Her guilt was still there but had faded, and another, unwelcome emotion had risen to the surface.

He pulled them both up to their feet. Emma felt the tremors in his hands and knew even without looking in his face he was enraged.

_Shamrocks,_ Emma thought. _I'll go for broke. Even with Alan's help I still might lose. Hell with it. I'll go down swinging._

She gave a sheepish grin. "Oh, sorry," she said, "I went and spoiled the moment, didn't I?"

He stared at her, amazed. She was brave again, and confident. Again he wondered where she got it from. Just a moment ago, she was practically a doll in his arms, subdued, defeated. Yet now she had escaped his reach. Oh, he could still kill her right then and there, but it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying.

"Why?" he began, his voice rough from relearning how to speak. "You still think you can get away?"

Emma shook her head. It's hard to show bravado when you can't look at someone in the face, but she knew better than to try.

No," she said, "but since you seemed to want to bargain with me, I thought I'd go ahead and ask for something…before we go."

That got his attention. "Go?" he said softly, intrigued. Emma nodded.

"I'll go with you," she offered. "I won't fight you anymore. I'll…I'll even kiss you like you want…if you do just one thing."

"And what would that be, sweetheart?"

"Please leave Alan and the others alone?"

Mr. Scr*tch's reaction was exactly what she'd expected. He snorted, releasing her, and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he doubled over and sank to the floor. He couldn't help himself. He hugged his stomach and rocked back and forth on his heels, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

Emma backed up slowly, not wanting to startle him.

_Yeah yeah, laugh it up, you arrogant bastard,_ she thought. _Laugh it up._

"You!" he tried to say, inhaling huge gulps of air, "You think I'm gonna-!" he broke off laughing again.

Emma retreated a bit more, edging around the table.

Mr. Scr*tch tried catching his breath. "Oh, Emma, Emma!" he gasped. "My sweet, little Emma, you are so brave! Stupid, but brave."

"I take it that's a no?" she asked, keeping her tone light. She was halfway to the remote now.

"That's a _big_ no!" he chortled, laughing again and bending over. "That's like, the biggest NO _ever!_ You can't really expect me to…" He dissolved into laughter again.

Emma slowly turned around and crept toward the remote. "Is it really that hard to do?" she asked.

It took him a moment to calm down. "Well," he gasped, "try taking me to an all-you-can-eat buffet and then telling me I can only eat a salad!"

He stood up and wiped his eyes. "It ain't happening, honey! I-wait, _where do you think you're going?_"

Emma froze with her back to him. Her hand was inches from the remote. The wineglass was in front of it, so Mr. Scr*tch didn't see, but he twitched again and the table jerked away from her. A gust of cold air whooshed past her and killed the last embers still burning in the fireplace.

"You weren't actually trying to escape, were you?" he asked with a blend of astonishment and menace. He began walking toward her.

Emma gulped and shook her head. She looked around and saw the one thing that might save her ass. The idea was so crazy, it just might work.

"No," she said. "I told you I'd go with you. I thought it couldn't hurt to ask."

He snickered. "O-kay," he said, sounding out every syllable with every step. "So. What. Are. You. Doing?"

She turned around and crossed her arms. "Getting your present." In her peripheral vision she watched him tilt his head.

She shrugged. "Might as well," she said, "It is Christmas, after all, and if I can't bargain for their lives, the least I can do is ask you to open your present."

"I…see," Mr. Scr*tch said with a slow nod. He snorted.

"Christmas," he said, his tone derisive, "what a stupid holiday. Why not just be honest? You people pretend it's something nice, but it's just an excuse. It's a mask for your greed. You scramble over each other to get the latest shit you don't need, to impress people you don't like, and then gorge on stuff you shouldn't. Why do that only a few times a year?"

Emma was pissed. She moved with purpose to the modest Christmas tree in the corner. In the back, surrounded by tiny white lights, she grabbed a small, unadorned green box.

"You're wrong," she said, moving back toward him. "Sure, we can be greedy and forget what this season is about. But Christmas is more than just getting. For many, it's sacred, holy. It's a time where we can forget the stupid stuff, too. We can be happy, laugh with one another. We can just be together with family, with friends, and…and even do silly things, like wear ugly sweaters!"

She grabbed the sweater she left on the armchair. Indeed, it was quite ugly, to have garnered Second Place. It was about five sizes too big for her, and colored the most hideous, putrid orangey-red imaginable. It was like someone threw up yesterday's tomato soup. To this was added a ton of long, brilliant, green fringe, with fuzzy red and green bows, silver tinsel, yellow stars, white streams of lace, and even a few three-dimensional ornaments glued on for good measure. It was Emma's creation and she loved it. She called it her Ugly Tannenbaum Sweater. It was the Christmas tree from hell.

Emma walked back to the table and grabbed her wineglass. In so doing, she put down the sweater and covered up the remote at the same time.

"I don't expect someone like you to understand that," she huffed, picking up everything again. She moved down the table and set her glass down next to his. She set the sweater down, tucking the remote underneath. She grabbed the wine bottle and refilled both glasses.

"Come here," Mr. Scr*tch said quietly. Oddly enough, her little speech seemed to have subdued him.

Shamrocks. She intended to put on the sweater first. She thought quickly. There was still a chance.

"Sit down," she said. "I'll come to you."

"You will?"

"Try asking, once, will you?" she said, exasperated. "Didn't it ever occur to you that you might get what you want if you just asked?"

She heard him turn around one of the armchairs and sit so he could watch her.

"What_ I_ want," Mr. Scr*tch said, his tone petulant but full of longing, "tends to disagree with what everyone else wants."

Emma paused. "Why didn't you come in earlier?" she asked softly. "You must have wanted to."

He didn't answer. He propped up his head on his hand; he couldn't even look at her.

"You couldn't, could you?" she persisted. She walked toward him. "Why not?"

"None of your business."

"Please?"

"Shut up."

"Okay," she said. She stood before him, two glasses in hand and his present tucked under her arm. "Then I bargain your gift for your answer."

He glanced up at her. She shrugged. "You might as well," she said again. "I'm dead anyway, right?"

She offered him the elbow that held the tiny box. He looked her over, considering. He could have said no, but he just couldn't resist making a deal, no matter how small or silly.

He reached up and took the box with both hands and turned it over, puzzling over it like a Rubik's Cube.

"When all of you were here, together," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you had something greater than you usually do alone. I was…blocked."

"By what?"

He frowned and wrinkled his nose. "By the touchy-feely stuff you all exude. The warm fuzzies."

Emma was surprised. "Love?"

Mr. Scr*tch made a face as if he had swallowed something that tasted terrible. "That's one of them, yeah."

"But don't you…er, love? What about the party you created that night?"

He sighed, suddenly weary. "Not that kind, Emma. Not that kind." He made a motion with his hand and the other armchair sidled up beside her.

Charity again, Emma realized. He understood desire and lust, but the sort of love that has no conditions was beyond him.

"Wow, who knew?" She sat down beside him.

"You did," he said softly. "Once. You people did. Long ago this world was a raging battlefield in which people would gladly sacrifice themselves. They would gamble their lives, to gain power or favors from us, but almost always in the name of l-of that word."

Emma's breath suddenly caught in her throat. "Us?"

He looked at her and she quickly looked away.

"I'm not alone, Emma," he said very quietly. "There are more…many, many more."

Emma shuddered and took a deep breath. "But you are alone, aren't you? In a way?"

Mr. Scr*tch sulked. The uncomfortable urge to spare her grew, but only by a hairsbreadth.

"So love," Emma said. "Then…that's why you can't go after Alan and the others. Alan's got Alice. Tor and Odin have each other. And Barry…well, Barry loves everyone, even though he tries to hide it. You got me, because I was weak and felt guilty. I was feeling sorry for myself. If I had forgiven myself and opened my heart, you never would have come, would you?"

"But I did," he reminded her, his voice rising. He nearly stood up. "And it's too late for you. You're _mine_, understand?"

She shushed him, feeling very odd soothing a monster.

"Yes," she said. His eyes widened with mild surprise. He looked at the box in his hands and frowned.

"I still don't trust you," he said, pouting again. "You open it."

Emma sighed. "Very well." She set the glasses down on the floor. She leaned forward and took the box. She looked toward him slyly.

"What will you give me if I do?" she asked.

It was Mr. Scr*tch's turn to give her a withering look. "Two extra minutes to live."

She shook her head from side to side, pretending to think. "I'll take it."

She didn't see his sad, little smile.


	6. Chapter 6 He Sees You When You're Sleepi

Ch. 6 He Sees You When You're Sleeping

"Are you sure?" Emma asked. "Opening presents is half the fun."

Mr. Scr*tch shook his head slowly, both as an answer and just marveling at her. What a strange, endearing, little human. He'd chased her, terrified her, seduced her, even harmed her…and yet, here she was, sitting across from him in an armchair, waxing philosophically on Christmas and l…_that_ word. Did she know how strong she was? Probably not, but she was quickly finding out. That bothered him a lot.

Emma shrugged. "Okay," she said. "But I warn you, it was supposed to be only symbolic."

She ripped open the green paper and uncovered a white, cardboard box. She popped open the lid, shook out the item, and held it up for him to see.

Mr. Scr*tch looked at his gift, confused. He frowned.

"Is this a joke?" he asked, irritated. Maybe he'd just kill her, after all.

She plopped the object in his hands. It was cold, heavy, and made out of crystal.

"Wait," she said. "It will make more sense with this." She took the object back and placed a small, red item inside of it. She then stood, grabbed one of the long matchsticks by the fireplace, and struck it. She thought for a moment.

"No, I must do this the right way," she said.

When she came back to him with the burning match, Mr. Scr*tch seemed to shrink into his chair.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Hold out your hands," she said. When he didn't move, Emma placed the object in his lap. He picked it up, his eyes dancing back and forth between Emma, the object, and the match. When she bent down, he flinched, nearly dropping the item. Emma steadied his hands with her own, completely shocking him.

"Relax, gingersnap," she said. She lit the tiny wick.

Mr. Scr*tch turned to look at it carefully with one eye, then two.

"It's a candle, called a tea light," Emma said. She blew out the match and sat back down.

Indeed, it was the tiniest red candle he'd ever seen, framed by a beautiful crystal candleholder. The light it emitted was small but steady, magnified only by the crystal's many facets, which sent off dozens of miniscule flecks of light, in all colors of the rainbow. The light was smaller than the colored Christmas lights he'd admired in the courtyard. Mr. Scr*tch gazed at tiny flame, rotating the crystal in his hands. It bothered him a little, but it didn't really hurt him.

It was beautiful.

"You…" Mr. Scr*tch whispered, "You said it was symbolic. What does it mean?"

Emma took a deep breath. She raised her eyes and knew it was safe to look at him.

"Hope," she said.

Just hearing the word seemed to pain him. He wanted to blow it out, to throw it away, to smash it in her face…but he couldn't. He couldn't stop staring at the candle.

Out of all of the things Mr. Scr*tch could never have, hope was one of the things he hated most. Love and faith were the other two, and while love was the strongest of all, Hope was probably the most tenacious. And Faith, well…Faith could make warriors out of children.

"Why would you…give me hope?" he asked Emma.

"It's not hope _for_ you," Emma replied. "It's hope in spite of you. You see, I was going to light this every day in your honor, starting tonight. It was to remind me that so long as I have even the tiniest hope, I have a reason to live. I'm not perfect. I've made a lot of mistakes, especially the night I met you. But I'm done with that. Even if I'm dying tonight, I have no regrets, not anymore.

"In fact, you can keep it," she said, leaning forward. "Because I…I forgive you."

Mr. Scr*tch was stunned. He finally tore his eyes away from the tea light.

"Forgive?" he echoed, shaking his head in frustration. "Me? You can't be serious."

Emma crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "Why not?"

"Because I _killed_ you!" he roared. He shot up out of his seat, desperate to regain his hold over her. He nearly dropped the candle. He stared at it, then gingerly placed it on the table.

"I killed you _dead!_" he shouted, standing over her. "I did it mostly to spite Wake. I didn't even _care_ about you! I ripped your little body to shreds! Not just once, but _twice!_" He grinned his mad, mad grin and his eyes blackened once more. He saw Emma look away. He bent over her, leaning on her armchair. He cupped her chin and forced her to face him. She shut her eyes and gripped the armrests.

His voice grew still. "And I _loved_ it!" he hissed. "I _enjoyed_ crushing the life out of you! And I'm going to do it _again!_"

Emma gulped and nodded slowly. "I know."

He made a strangled noise. He straightened and threw up his hands and paced in a restless circle.

"Then how?" he demanded. "Do you have a death wish? How can you…just…?"

Emma opened her eyes, but kept her head down. "Because I can."

She folded her arms. "What happened that night wasn't my fault. Alan told me so, but I didn't believe him, not then. _You_ started the party that nearly tore the place up. _You_ started the fight at the diner, and _you_ were the one who killed those two people."

"You didn't try to stop me," Mr. Scr*tch accused her. "You ran away. You didn't even _try_ to stop me!"

"Like I could stop you now?" she replied, coughing another laugh. "If I had, you'd have killed me without a second thought, which you did anyway. Twice."

She sighed. "No," she said, "I'm not condoning what you did to me or to those people. But I release you; I release the guilt I have. You're doing what is obviously in your nature to do. You can't help yourself."

Mr. Scr*tch stood over her, enraged, his hands balled into fists. He shook his head slowly.

"No," he whispered kneeling down beside her. "I _can_ help myself. I was just going to kill you, but now…now I'm going to take my time." He tilted his head and grinned his maniacal grin. "I'm going to kill you _very _slowly, and I'll make sure it's _very_ painful. I'll make you scream my name again, this time for everyone to hear!"

Emma swallowed hard and nodded slowly, a tear escaping down her face. She picked up her glass of wine and drained it. She sighed.

"I'm ready."

"Ready?" he echoed, incredulous.

"To go," she said.

"Really."

She stood up. "It should probably be soon, before I lose my nerve."

She heard him come up behind her. She gulped and crossed her fingers.

"Okay," he asked, his tone suggestive. "What about my kiss? You still owe me that."

She expected no less. "Fine," she huffed, rolling her eyes.

He grabbed her shoulders roughly and turned her around.

"Wait," she said. "I want to take one thing before I go."

"Yes?"

She went to put on her beloved ugly sweater, carefully tucking the remote in one of her huge sleeves. She turned to face him, her hands lost inside them. She made a show of it and spun around.

"What do you think?" she asked, expecting him to say something insulting or sarcastic.

He just looked at her. What Emma didn't know was that he didn't see the ugly sweater, but what it represented to her, and he could smell what it made her feel.

He stared at her and struggled to say something clever. Finally he admitted the truth.

"You look beautiful."

She looked toward him, surprised. He looked her over and shook his head.

"You're really ready?" he asked again. She bit her lip and nodded. He grabbed the glass of wine she left for him and drained it, tossing it aside with a tinkling crash. He stepped toward her, opened his arms wide, inviting her.

"Come here," he said again, then added much more quietly, "please."

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders once more. As if marching to the gallows, she strode toward him, scared, but with her head held high.

When she reached him, he enfolded her into his arms, petting the top of her head, and just held her for a long moment.

"I won't forget you," he whispered, squeezing her fiercely. "I'll treasure this night forever. I'll keep you…just for a little while. I won't let them touch you. You belong to _me._"

Emma supposed saying such a thing was the closest Mr. Scr*tch could get to being kind.

"Last chance," she mumbled. "You don't have to do this."

"I must, Emma," he whispered, "It's as you said. I can't help it. I want you…every piece of you…forever."

Emma gulped. "This is going to hurt a lot, isn't it?"

Mr. Scr*tch sighed. "Exquisitely."

His cool fingers caressed her cheek and cupped her chin. He tilted her head upwards but she closed her eyes.

_Look at me,_ he spoke in her mind_. Emma…look at me._

Emma didn't know if she whispered the words or just thought them.

_I can't. Your eyes…I can't._

_You can. This once I swear. Look._

She opened her eyes and looked into his. They were Alan's ordinary baby blues.

Mr. Scr*tch's hands began shaking again, this time with desire.

He tilted his head and lowered it.

_Now,_ he whispered in her mind, _kiss me._

She wrapped her arms around his neck, readying the remote. She nestled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Scratch," she whispered, and kissed him.


	7. Chapter 7 He Knows When You're

Ch. 7 He Knows When You're…

For the first time in his existence, Mr. Scr*tch discovered what charity tasted like.

It was just an innocent brush of lips at first. Mr. Scr*tch tried to maintain some control but he quickly lost it. He made a small cry and crushed her mouth, his tongue probing deeply. The more he tasted, the more he craved. He grabbed the back of her head and pressed her hard against him. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, his tongue dancing wildly with hers. He then began sucking her tongue inside of his mouth.

Emma tried to breathe but found it nearly impossible. He moved too fast for her and she couldn't think. Somehow she knew he was sucking everything out of her, everything she'd ever carried in her heart and feeding on it. His desire was so great she could feel his desperate, gnawing hunger pouring over her like a cold wave. He was relentless, pushing forward until they were sprawled out on the table.

Suddenly his sweater was gone, replaced by his usual perfectly tailored white shirt, although he didn't seem to mind when it became hopelessly rumpled. He paused, letting her feel the full weight of his body, enjoying the warmth of hers. He stopped feeding, for he knew if he didn't stop she'd be dead in mere minutes, and he wanted to do so much more. His mouth couldn't leave hers. His kiss was hard and bruising; biting and licking her mouth all at once. Emma didn't know he'd split her lip open until he'd become even more excited and tongued the cut, lapping the blood like cream, suckling her lower lip inside of his mouth. He groaned.

_I knew it,_ she heard him say in her mind. _I knew you'd taste good. You are my real present, my brave, little Emma…so much better than fudge._

He'd grabbed her wrists and held them over her head. Fortunately, Emma's sleeves were so voluminous that the remote slid down her arm and he didn't discover it. But he would very soon if she didn't do something fast. She glanced over and saw the candle next to the wine bottle. If only she could distract him!

He held her wrists in one hand while the other wandered underneath her sweater and shirt, discovering her stomach and stroking it. His fingers trailed in circular patterns, tickling her, making her cry out and writhe beneath him, which he clearly enjoyed, digging his hips into hers. He pulled back to look her over, his eyes completely black. He bent his head and began sliding underneath her oversized sweater. It was so big he could easily fit himself inside of it with her.

_So you do have a soft, pink belly,_ he laughed, biting into it gently at first. He released one of her wrists, probably on purpose to let her try and fight him. She did at first, pulling his hair and clawing at him, but it only made him laugh and bite her harder. She screamed and flung out an arm, knocking into the crystal candleholder, sending it spinning.

Mr. Scratch looked up, distracted by the tiny dancing lights as it began to roll off the table. When he made a grab for it, Emma moved. When he caught it, he turned to look at her and saw she had completely tucked her head and arms inside of her sweater. He laughed, thinking she was protecting her stomach. He lay on top of her once more.

"Gotcha," he whispered. He peeked through the top of her sweater and saw her shrink away from him.

"_Still _playing?" he called. "Yoo-hoo…Emmmaa…anybody home?" Snickering, he ducked his head underneath her sweater and nibbled on her belly before moving upwards. He slid his arms up as well, holding her, until half of his body was inside of her sweater. He peered up at her watching him and laughed…until he noticed she was covering up something on her chest.

If Emma learned one thing, it was this: sometimes you can't return good for evil. Sometimes evil just has to be_ stopped_.

"What's that you've got?" Mr. Scr*tch asked, leaning in.

"Your fucking mistletoe," Emma said with a wicked grin. She pressed the third button.

Suddenly, her ugly Tannenbaum sweater lit up, brighter than the ball drop in Times Square on New Year's Eve.

Mr. Scr*tch screamed, jerking upwards but he was caught inside of the sweater. Being much smaller, Emma was able to wriggle her way out of it first. As he rolled off of her, she managed to grab the hem and pull it over him completely.

He continued to scream like a tortured animal, flailing about until he fell to the floor. Emma hopped off of the table, ran for the fireplace and grabbed the tiny bottle of lighter fluid and another match. She squirted the contents on his writhing form, struck the match and dropped it on him.

_Now it really _is_ the Christmas tree from hell,_ she thought to herself.

If she thought he was screaming before, she couldn't quite describe the noises he made now as the flames surrounded his dissolving figure. He rolled around, finally freeing himself, but was too weak to stand. Knowing he was doomed, he glared at her in pure malice.

"_Emma!_" he shouted. "This isn't over, Emma! I'll come back! I'll come back just for you! You belong to me! You're _mine,_ Emma! MINE!"

"Bah, humbug, asshole," Emma muttered. With a final shriek, Mr. Scr*tch's figure dissolved to nothing, but a sudden whoosh of cold, dark air put out the fire and knocked Emma off her feet. The gust of air seemed to be screaming as it flew up the fireplace and into the night.

No sooner had the shadowy doppelganger left; Alan Wake rushed in with Alice right behind him. He helped Emma to her feet.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Suddenly, all kinds of voices surrounded them.

"What the hell happened? Such a ruckus, we couldn't sleep!"

"Al, is she hurt? You okay, Emma?"

"What happened to your sweater?"

Emma sank to her knees in relief and cried.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

When the fingers of dawn crawled over the rocky, desert landscape, Emma finally felt safe. She stood with the others on the roof of Motor Hall, watching. They'd stayed up all night, insisting on helping her clean up the mess. Alan reassured her that it was over, that Mr. Scr*tch would trouble her no more.

She turned to him. "What would you have done if I'd failed, if he would have killed me?"

"But you didn't, and he didn't," Alan said, "and that's all that matters. I knew you could do it."

"And," Alice added, "if he'd tried to mess with us, I brought plenty of camera equipment to make him think twice. I'd have liked to see him just try to come after us with my flashbulbs!"

"Then…I was never alone in there, was I?" Emma asked. "Why didn't you say anything? Do anything?"

Alan sighed. "Would you have accepted our help?"

Emma smirked. "Probably not. I'm pretty stubborn about doing things myself. And it _was_ my fault."

"Exactly," Alan replied. "When you told me you'd 'sent' an invitation, I thought there was a chance simply because it was so impossible. After you turned the lights in the courtyard back on I knew I was right."

"I wanted to go around and make sure the building was secure," Alice said, with a tiny pout, "but you wouldn't let me."

"Oh no," Alan said, "I'm never letting you out of my sight again!"

"Hey, I had my flashbulbs! I was prepared!"

"Nope, you're stuck with me."

"How did I get so lucky?"

"You mean I'm the lucky one, right?"

"Damn straight. Good, you're learning."

They kissed, and Emma snickered, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, you two!" she said, waving them off in dismissal. "You know how they say 'Get a room?' Well, I got you one, so go and do your sappy stuff there, before you sicken the rest of us!"

They all laughed and went down to their rooms to get some much needed rest. Emma turned on the No Vacancy sign. She didn't want to deal with any more visitors, at least for a day or two.

Before leaving for his room, Alan noticed Emma was still unnerved. He offered some encouragement for her.

"He'll never return. I know it, and in fact, it's easy to believe that."

"How? How can you be so certain?" she asked him. "He said I belonged to him. How do you know he won't be back?"

Alan smiled, and Emma noticed how different a smile is when it comes from a good place.

"Because I have hope," he said, "and I have faith, and so do you. You don't need a candle to remember that, but if it helps…"

"Yeah, you're right," she said, "I don't need it. I just have to believe it."

Later, alone in her own room, Emma showered, making sure the water was extra hot and scrubbing every inch of her body, every bit the monster had claimed. After toweling off, she stared at the teeth marks left on her neck. Most of them would fade, but she knew the one at the base of her neck would probably scar.

_Damn you,_ she thought, _you think this marks me as yours? Never! It's just another battle scar, which is something everyone has. If you go through life, and have no scars to show for it, you're not really living. No. I'm going to live. I'll live every day in spite of you, and one day, I'll even forget your name. I hope I do! I hope!_

She kept reassuring herself as she drifted off to sleep, certain her candle was just misplaced.

They never found it.

Yet somewhere, neither near nor far, one tiny red candle still burns in the darkness. And as the old saying goes: Hope springs eternal...

...Even in...Night Springs.

The End.


End file.
